A Touch of Warmth
by NeoKGS
Summary: Miriam Possible, a wanted criminal in her home country, is questing for her innocence. Yet a simple teatime truce instills a touch of warmth she hasn't felt in years, and the unthinkable possibility that going back might be the last thing she wants... An authorized rewrite of the original "A Touch of Warmth", written by the original co-authors and posted on their shared account.
1. Chapter I

**Authors' Forward**

Welcome to the fic once again! This is a collaboration between Neo the Saiyan angel and kgs-wy, and we're reposting it on a mutual account, after taking some time to edit and expand a few small (wait, small?!) sections here and there... Well, maybe more than a few...? And... Not really small ones... Anyway, mostly for flow and consistency, and a few (a _few_?!) additions for story depth. If you've read this before, we suggest re-reading it, even if it hasn't been too terribly long since you read it over on Neo's account. You don't have to, of course, but we think the changes make for a better read.

The fic itself takes place approximately one hundred years before the Kim Possible series, following a path that explains, at least in part, what happened to Miriam Possible after she disappeared following Bartholomew Lipsky's attempted theft of the Electrostatic Illuminator.

It is also a part of a larger series of fics, tentatively set as a trilogy, culminating in a fic taking place during the time between the episodes "Larry's Birthday" and "Graduation". We hope you enjoy the fic, and please let us know what you think! Comments and criticism (constructive preferred, obviously!) are both appreciated and welcomed!

 **Disclaimer:** please see profile for the disclaimer!

 **MP MP MP MP**

 _December 17, 1904_

Bartholomew Lipsky's breathing was slowly becoming erratic as he ran for the safety of the market crowds of Naples, Italy. Things had gone very, very wrong in his plan, and not just on this day! No, his failure to obtain the steel formula a few weeks prior was just the beginning of misfortune for him. It wasn't that his plans were _flawed_. No, most certainly not! The problem came in the form of a variable which he was unable to account for, no matter his scheme, and no matter whether he considered said flaw or not.

His initial attempts at theft were not simply for the new type of steel with strong anti-corrosive aspects, but for everything related to it! The best types of furnaces used, the ideal temperatures and atmospheres used within, the elemental make-up… In short, _everything_! Unfortunately, those attempts were foiled through what he thought was carelessness. This time he had simply been after the formula itself, thinking he had accounted for everything possible, but that one complication, that that one variable, still evaded computation.

Said variable had sent her second after his bodyguard when the plot had finally fallen apart. A strange move to his eyes when she made it, as the fool detective couldn't keep up with Bartholomew in a fight, let alone Miss Go! Granted, the small man could, surprisingly, take more punishment than an enraged cape buffalo, but it seemed madness. Unfortunately, he now saw the method to her madness, and far too late to do anything about it!

She was skipping the grand fight with his bodyguard, instead going straight to trying to apprehend him. Not a very sporting move, but he had to admit that she was dangerously close to being able to capture him red-handed. After all, even if the message had been written by an Italian trained in the workings of a spy for the purpose of espionage, it had been written with an ink used specifically by British secret services. It had been a deliciously clever ploy on the man's part, as it would point to a British double agent as the thief. Unfortunately for Bartholomew, to be caught with it on his person would implicate _him_ as well, and it would not do to be caught with such in his hands instead of the Italian who still eluded him!

Very reckless on his part. It was the proper villain etiquette to do as such, of course, but he really had been much too foolish when he'd learned his apparent nemesis was on his tail as well.

Now he was a mere dozen steps from disaster. He could hear Ms. Possible behind him doing her best to try and cover the distance. If he were a decade younger he could have maintained the distance indefinitely. But as he was not, she was gaining.

"You won't escape!" Bartholomew heard her gasp out as she followed. He smirked at that; she was clearly not a runner by trade or tradition. Or by clothing style, considering her high heeled boots and the dress she wore, otherwise she would not have wasted the breath to say that. Well, she might not have worn such a dress had she planned on the encounter; he distinctly remembered seeing her in more practical clothing in New York, before he'd parted ways with Miss Go for their trip across the Atlantic. With that fact floating around, a thought struck him...

The idea, while a tad shameful, would at least help to ensure his escape. His mental map of the area confirmed that he was but a few back alleys away from the main marketplace. He just had to keep her off of him for that much longer.

"Oh?" he said with an exhale, making sure the word oozed with confidence.

"You doubt my word?" Miriam huffed, her footfalls sounding nearly right behind him. "I..." Her words halted as she took a swallow of breath, "I _will_ stop you!"

"But you have, non?" the escaping villain stated, once again in one exhaling breath.

"You are still… _Free_. Justice must…" Again she gulped breath, frustration evident in her voice, "Be served! Scoundrels… Scoundrels like you... Need to be _stopped_!" Her growling exclamations had first sounded just out of arm's length behind him. By the end of her small speech, her footsteps sounded at least five steps behind, a rewarding sound to Bartholomew's ears.

"And you will do so?" He prodded, drawing an inarticulate growl before she spoke again.

"If I must! You will… Will _not_ win. I will see to that!" With the last sentence, the lady seemed to gain spirit and charged forward. He could feel her fingers slide along the back of his smart looking, if informal, frock coat.

In a desperate attempt to further distract her Bartholomew cried, "So you are Justice?"

The outrageous statement served its purpose. He heard her boots briefly scrabble against the paving stones of the alleyway as she fought to keep her balance from her own shock. "I am not Justice!" She objected, and Bartholomew was honestly surprised to hear her actually _stop_ for a precious second. The pause gave him a few more steps, before he heard her feet kick into motion once again. Her voice when she continued was sharp and incisive, but it bothered the man not in the least, as it further sapped her apparently prodigious stamina all the more, "I… Am not even a represen… _Representative_. My reasons for trying… To catch you… Are my own. You are a foul… Man who has only his… Own desires in mind. Selfishness… Should not… Be _rewarded_!"

With each breath she took, with every word uttered, there was a further the loss of air and, in relation, a loss of speed. Soon he found himself well over two dozen steps ahead of her. To his immense relief he also saw the marketplace perhaps forty-five meters ahead through the narrow alleyway.

"Yet you seek me out for your own ends!" He breathed in a rush, "As such… My goals are no more… Selfish than your own!" His protests drew a sudden, frustratedly enlightened growl from his pursuer.

"I see your game!" Miriam yelled to him. He took that as her ignoring his point, though it served to end the discussion. Shame she had caught on so fast. It also piqued his interest; who _was_ this girl? He knew next to nothing about her, aside from her being a _reporter_ of all things, and had only known a few women of such fortitude and quick wit… Honestly, he hadn't met a woman as intelligent and grounded since his introduction to Miss Go!

She put in a valiant effort to catch him, but it was in vain. He smiled in triumph as she attempted to grasp his coat's collar, countering with his own burst of speed. She stumbled and his sudden sprint left her grasping air, propelling him to the end of the alleyway in a handful of seconds. He slowed enough to easily slip into the small space in the crowd that seemed to open for him, which began to close almost immediately behind. Turning about, he turned back to see her grasping at a windowsill as she caught her breath.

"My apologies," Bartholomew called out, her green eyes locking on his and flashing brilliantly in the dim alley. Unable to resist one last little provocation, he smirked jauntily to her, inclining his body with the slightest bow while tipping his stylish bowler at her, "But I must bid you good day!"

With that, the crowd closed about him. Bartholomew did his best to control his speed and breathing as he walked into the ebbing and flowing traffic. After several meters of walking and gentle apologies as he passed people somewhat brusquely, he slowed and matched pace with the others about him. The distance, followed by the change of pace of both movement and breathing, he hoped, should make him less conspicuous. _So long as my exertions left my face no more sweaty than those surrounding me..._

He took a moment to orient himself with well known landmarks, allowing a soft sigh of relief to leave his lips as he thought on his escape route. He was not only on pace, but slightly ahead of schedule! His path would lead him to the harbor where Miss Go would hopefully be waiting for him with a chartered boat. His favored alias, Sherlock Atelier — a name taken from his favorite fictional character and his own late cousin — had rented it for the day, ostensibly to do business in the port of Gaeta.

In truth, he would stop there, but only to fetch a pair of horses stabled and waiting for a brief trek into the hills surrounding the port town where he'd hidden his new airship. His eyes glazed over slightly as he thought of the beautifully designed ship he had commissioned back home, and had, upon taking delivery, modified. With the help of one of his dear friends, airship designer extraordinaire Eva Poitier, of course! The beautiful lines, the exceptional craftsmanship… Everything about it was enough to set the heart of any man of science aflutter. _Ah, yes, my airship. It is so much better than that_ balloon _I used in the United Stat-..._

His thoughts were cut off quite painfully as, in his distraction, he ran smack into another man about halfway down the next block. Both he and the man fell on their rumps, their hats sent fluttering to the dusty street between their feet. He shook his head and found himself blinking away the painful blow, feeling not unlike he had been kicked by a recalcitrant donkey. He quickly snatched his hat and stood to his feet, dusting himself and the prized bowler off and extending his hand to the man, who seemed to have come out the worse for the collision.

"I'm terribly sorry," Bartholomew began in fluent Italian as the man stared at his hand and accepted it without a second thought. He'd just pulled the man to his feet and replaced his hat on his head when he continued, "I am a bit distracted, an-... _You_!"

"You!" the man parroted back, his eyes widening as he realized Bartholomew's clenched fist was barreling straight at his jaw.

"That was my _wife_ you slept with!" Bartholomew ad-libbed, allowing an angry scowl, which had nothing at all to do with his words, cross his face. He smirked as his punch landed flush with the angle of the man's jaw, sending him easily into unconsciousness. He glanced around and growled in a heated tone, "Private business..." He quickly dragged the man into an alley, earning a few understanding grunts from some men that had overheard the brief conversation.

"Now, Mr. Giordano," Bartholomew chuckled when he was assured of their privacy, "Let us see what you have here..." He opened the satchel pouch that had been around the man's shoulder and rifled through the contents, almost crowing aloud when he realized what he'd found.

"Oh, _thank_ you, Mr. Giordano," the villain all but cooed, a huge smile crossing his features, "So _thoughtful_ of you to carry your work around with you. In full, no less!"

He was about to let loose with a devious laugh when a voice from the street made his breath catch in his throat.

"Damn you, Lipsky!" Slowly, Bartholomew looked back and spied Miriam just at the entrance to the alleyway, leaning back against the corner, still working to catch her breath. With as much care as he could, he secured the satchel around his own shoulder and stood, carefully placing a hand on his hat before dashing off down the alleyway, toward its intersection with another.

"Lipsky!" he heard from behind him, and the stomp of heavy, tired feet trying to follow him, but he had caught his breath, unlike his pursuer. He allowed himself a triumphant chuckle as he heard her stumble and curse his name again, and only slowed his pace when he was safely ensconced within another crowd.

 _Well, this changes everything! I will have to arrange rail travel for Miss Go from Naples proper to Paris… By way of Marseille, I believe that should take about four to five days. I will send the satchel, with blank papers, along with her... She_ should _be able to avoid Miss Possible and Mr. Stoppable, and the circuitous route will give me time to take the plans via airship to Le Mans, and meet there with the daughter of Prince Dakkar..._ He walked on, making plans and paying more attention to his path, lest Fate play a cruel joke on him like it had Mr. Giordano and thrust him into the clutches of those he would wish to avoid instead...

 **MP MP MP MP**

Back at the alley, Miriam was left in a quandary. She could leave the man Bartholomew had been chasing, and possibly have something bad happening to him on her conscience, or she could stay here and await his waking, and help him. Her conscience won out quickly, and she bent over his still, but breathing, form to slap his face lightly. "Come on, wake up!"

After a moment of this, and progressively harsher words and slaps from the reporter, the man sat up with a start, almost slamming his head into Miriam's. Her quick reflexes saved them both from an ironic collision, and she quickly covered his mouth with her hand. "He's gone, and we're going to have a long talk about what he was after!" she growled before catching herself and sighing slightly. "My apologies, but I am under a bit of stress."

"It is quite alright, Miss Possible..." he muttered while searching for something, presumably the satchel he had been carrying. Miriam's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she could see several realizations congealing on the man's face. The first being that Lipsky had caught him off guard enough to be knocked unconscious. Second, she guessed, was that the satchel had been on his person. Most glaringly obvious was not that his home accent had slipped so plainly, but that he'd used her name, which he should not, by any stretch of the imagination, know. The dangerous glint she knew always lurked in her eyes when angered made him swallow involuntarily, and he shrugged, dredging up an excuse that echoed hollowly to the redhead, "I... Remember reading about you and your friend Jonathon Stoppable helping Hercule Poirot..."

"Fine," Miriam drew the word out threateningly, standing but not offering the man a hand up, her addressing him in fluent French taking him further off his guard, "But we will discuss this in a civilized manner. As I believe you would not like me becoming uncivilized, non?"

"Very true, _mademoiselle_..." he muttered back in his native tongue. He rubbed his sore jaw with a rueful grin, sighing as she put her fists on her hips and tapped an expectant foot while glaring at him, "Ah, the things I do for my family."

 **MP MP MP MP**

Miriam woke with a start, sitting bolt upright and clutching the bedding to her form. She quickly looked around the cramped, private sleeping quarters, as if expecting… Someone to jump out and attack her. She blinked a couple times at the bright light filtering in through the drawn curtains, glancing around the room. While spartan, the comfortably firm mattress and a few other items were of a luxury bent. It had a small bar, which she had used with abandon the prior night, a small partition to close off an area for changing — which she had daringly left latched open — as well as a key wound wall clock. She sighed and blinked a few times, the numbers finally resolving to indicate it was almost a quarter to eight in the morning.

After looking around, she began to take in the creaking and clacking from underneath the bed, as well as the distant chugging of a powerful steam engine and relaxed slightly. _We are still on the train, then…_ The thought gave her pause, the plurality of her statement taking her aback.

She felt a stirring to her left, drawing the prior day spent chasing Bartholomew Lipsky through Naples to the forefront of her mind. She pursed her lips briefly, remembering the frustratingly protracted meeting with the Frenchman. That had been followed shortly with a hurried booking of rail travel to Paris, by way of Marseille to briefly meet with _monsieur_ Poirot while the train took on water and fuel...

Then the prior _night's_ activities struck her like a blacksmith's hammer.

She blushed slightly, smiling softly as the man next to her stirred further, a soft groan emanating from the slowly waking form. She sighed in a strange mix of contentment and anxiety as she thought back to a half drunken conversation with him the night before. Her bedmate muttered incoherently after a moment of glancing around himself, and she took in the bleary eyed, blond headed face of her best friend. And now, apparently, occasional lover, if their conversation — not to mention actions — from the prior night was any indication.

"G'mornin', Mim…" he muttered, smacking his mouth to try and clear the gumminess from his tongue.

She didn't say anything for a long moment, only stared at his face and the sleep filled eyes trying desperately to focus on her, so different from the clear, sure gaze of the prior night. She remembered it clearly, and let her thoughts trail back, running the conversation back and forth in her mind...

 _"Jon… I…" She'd leaned in, tears falling from her eyes as the stress of the past months took over, "I desperately need to release this… This_ tension _within me… Before it destroys me."_

 _"Mim, I love you," Jonathon had whispered, "But you do realize not in this way."_

 _"I know, Jonathon... Jon..." she had whispered just as softly, "But… I do not want to become some_ harlot _, nor should I like to sell myself or purchase the services of such as Isabella and her ladies do for men, and even women, for my release. Such a silly concept, I'd thought once, but now?" She'd sighed, "I am even past the point which self-release helps! And wish_ only _to do this with someone I trust, and love... Even if I am not ready to love like I loved my Albert. I am only recently able to talk about his loss, and… You are far from unattractive, and I know that_ I _am comely. And I know you desire me, at least physically, if not romantically."_

 _"I guess it'd be a lie if I said otherwise," Jonathon had laughed at his own self-depreciation, before sobering significantly, "Are you sure about this? I know you haven't slept well, and if this... Situation is bothering you so strongly, perhaps you_ do _need it, but I_ have _to know, are you_ truly _su-..."_

 _"Yes!" she'd nodded firmly, a gentle smile of apology for interrupting him lighting her face, "And... I am unable to conceive children, Jon. You know my Albert and I tried for a few years before he died..." Her smile had brightened as he'd nodded and reached out to touch her face gently, cupping his hand to her face and kissing his palm in a manner that was anything but coy, "And frankly, you're right about my sleeping, and the stress. I_ desperately _need good sex..."_

"Good morning, Jonathon," Miriam Possible sighed, shaking herself from her memories and dropping the bedsheets. When his attention turned briefly to her bare bosom, she reached over to ruffle his hair fondly, "Sleep well?"

"More impor'an'ly," Jonathon Stoppable slurred, blinking slowly and rubbing at his sleep fogged eyes to clear them, "Did you?"

"Quite well, thank you." Miriam stretched unabashedly, her slight breasts lying enticingly along her athletic frame. She dropped her arms, folding them and leaning forward on her knees. She glanced back at him, a rueful, hesitant smile upon her face, "Are you alright with…" she gestured between him and herself, not agitated, but obviously concerned, "All this? Being a lover of occasion to me, but no promises of more than our friendship?"

"Miriam..." Jonathon sat up fully, sleep forgotten by the words and the concern, even worry he heard in her voice. He reached over and enfolded her in a hug, ignoring the stirring such proximity engendered, "As I said last night, I care for you, love you even, as a _friend_. And if I can help you, in any way, you only had but to _ask_."

"As I feel for you, Jonathon... Jon." Miriam sighed slightly, then gave a minute shake of her head and continued, "I know you, though, and know there is more left unsaid with such a bold statement."

"You know, Mim, that I'm not exactly an innocent when it comes to women, right?" He pulled back and waited for her to nod in agreement, ignoring her smirking, knowing snicker to continue with a slightly melancholic smile, "And that, well, I've never really, truly had love as you and Albert did."

"I know, Jon." Miriam's smile became a bit fragile, but she nodded for him to continue.

"Would I like more? I… I must admit that, especially after last night, the idea is appealing, yes." He held up a finger when she opened her mouth, the suddenly stern look in his eyes belied by the expansive smile that came upon his face, "But it is, and always _will be_ , for you to decide if it'll ever be more than friendship and... How'd you say it? 'Occasional physical dalliances to help both of us with pent up pressures and desires!', I believe?" Miriam's smile relaxed, and she let out a girlish giggle despite her own personal revulsion at how she sounded when she did.

"That is exactly what I said, Jon. And… Thank you." She compulsively leaned over and planted a gentle, friendly kiss on his cheek, "Now, I do not know about you, but I feel rather famished." She gently rested a hand on his still covered leg, an eyebrow climbing towards her disheveled hairline as she realized he was more awake than his appearance led her to believe. A slow smirk chased the smile from her shapely lips, and her voice dropped slightly, "Or would you rather _earn_ the break to our nightly fast?"

"You're insatiable, Mim!" Jonathon groaned in a melodramatic manner, before smirking himself, "No wonder Albert was always so tired looking in the morning."

The comment earned a fond, reminiscent chuckle from Miriam as she leaned down and began planting intense kisses down his fit, surprisingly muscular body…

 **MP MP MP MP**

 _December 24, 1904_

"Come, Miss Go!" Bartholomew Lipsky piped in an enthusiastic, even happy tone, "There is much we must do today!"

"Ugh, must you always be so foolishly happy in the mornings?" Aglaya Go growled at the well-dressed German aristocrat, scowling as she took a long sip at the small cup held daintily between her thumb and forefinger.

"Was your sleep restless, Miss Go?" Bartholomew asked in a seemingly concerned tone, before his tone became serious. "Perhaps your restless sleep is why you missed the presence of that woman, the reporter... What was her name?" He pondered for a moment before nodding, as if the information he sought hadn't been at the forefront of his own mind, "Oh, yes, Miriam Possible! Not to mention her lapdog detective, Jonathan Stoppable… You remember them, the ones who foiled my plans in America? The ones who have become such a nuisance even here in Europe?"

"Yes," Miss Go grimaced as her right hand unconsciously went to her cheek, gently rubbing the spot where she'd had a bruise for almost two weeks following the fight atop the giant Ferris wheel in Middleton, "I remember them, and aside from a small tussle with Stoppable in Naples, I've seen neither of them!"

"Truly?" Bartholomew asked in an almost mockingly confused manner, "According to the passenger manifests of the steam ship I thoughtfully booked you passage on, when we had to go our separate ways in Maryland?" he held up a telegram where he had supposedly gleaned the information, his tone rising ever-so-slightly at the end of the question, "They happened to board the same ship as you! Which, reasonably, explains how they found us in London when I began following Mr. Giordano."

"Interesting..." Miss Go drawled lazily, as if awaiting his point.

"Similar manifest checking showed they also followed you from London to Naples. I had wondered how they had kept up, considering I had left London to France to pick up my airship from _mademoiselle_ Poitier before I picked you up in Gibraltar." Miss Go opened her mouth to speak, but Bartholomew cocked his head slightly forward, stalling her words as he continued, "According to the train's passenger manifest, they followed you not only from New York to London to Naples — while catching up to us after an airship voyage for over two thirds of that leg of our journey, mind you — but from there to Paris, and, _somehow_ , managed to get on the _same train_ as you from Naples to Paris!"

"I don't know ho-..." Miss Go began sharply, but Bartholomew interrupted her just as sharply.

"Ah, ah, Miss Go, I am not _finished_!" His gaze darkened slightly, a mix of anger, frustration and curiosity easily discernible, "I am wondering if you would care to explain how you managed to miss a beautiful red-head and a prim, stylishly presented young detective from that American agency you detest, hmmm?"

"My apologies, Lipsky!" Aglaya snapped. Her tone was angry, but Bartholomew let it slide, as the woman's tone held a strong note of sincerity, "But you _know_ I was on the run from the blasted Pinkertons that Possible's lapdog sicced on me to New York. I stayed in my cabin until I was in London!"

"And why-…" Bartholomew began, but a frustrated harrumph from Miss Go stopped him.

"It was in case they had international warrants, which I could not confirm _until_ I was in London, on British soil!" She paused and took a deep breath, calming herself before continuing. "And you're quite right, my sleep from Naples to here _was_ restless."

"And why so?" Bartholomew's skeptical gaze drew a grunt of annoyance from the woman.

"Because the newlyweds in the next car kept me up most of the night, and sometimes half of the morning!" She smirked evilly as the aristocrat blushed slightly, and nodded, "Yes, the woman seemed quite insatiable…" She glanced at her drink and, satisfied it had cooled enough, drew it to her lips, downing the strong, bitter black liquid within in a single gulp, "That's why I've had four of these Italian coffees."

"You do mean, of course, espresso?" He sneered in an oddly mocking manner, though the tone was not directed at her. She smirked slightly and clucked her tongue, agreeing with his sentiment as he continued, his tone falling into the one he reserved when speaking about the autocrats bent on ruining the world, "Or _caffè crema_ , as those slavish to snobbery would say." He considered her words as they left the cafe, finally nodding as he accepted her story, albeit grudgingly.

Of course, his snide comments had granted him time to consider her explanations and reactions. Bartholomew had worried at the possibility that Miss Go had somehow been convinced to work against him as a saboteur by those that would see him ruined. Possibly even as a spy for that reporter and her second, what with the seeming ease they had in following her. The latter had seemed the most likely, since the Pinkerton agent could potentially reduce or eliminate any warrants against her back in her home country.

Ultimately, however, she seemed sincere, and his checking into the rail trip had told him that it was one of the more comfortable travels to take, as well as being the last leaving Naples that evening. It could even be that one of their opponents had a fear of heights, which necessitated a non-mountainous route. Or, more disturbingly, that they had a friend in Italy that had informed them of Miss Go's route to Paris.

He pondered a moment as Miss Go managed, somehow, to both relax and appear more attentive and awake at once. With a minute nod, he decided to accept that it was simple coincidence all-around. "Perhaps that does indeed explain why you have been out of sorts… My apologies as well, Miss Go."

Miss Go nodded and sighed as she felt the first tingling of caffeine buzzing within her system. "So what are we doing today, Lipsky?"

"Why, my dear…" Bartholomew grinned in a decidedly maniacal fashion, "You are going to distract a certain Pinkerton agent for me, by implying you have the documents detailing a new steel formulation and mass production process, and I am going to attempt surveillance on Ms. Possible, or even a bit of a parley, without that damnably tenacious lapdog of hers around to interfere!"

 **Authors' Notes**

And there ya have it, Chapter 1 of the rewrite all done, dusted, and — we hope — polished! It's taken far longer than we'd originally intended for this to come to fruition, but we're glad it's finally starting to roll along. Currently, we're looking at an upload rate of one chapter a month, though we might increase that speed, depending on how things feel moving forward.

As to the story... Interesting to see that, even with Mim and Jon taking the good fight to Bartholomew, he managed to thwart their attempts to capture him... And, with a bit of a smile from serendipity, he managed to succeed in his original plan, to boot!

Then there's that bit of happening between Mim and Jon! Mim, ever the progressive sort of woman, and Jon fully in support of it! Well, there's a few obvious reasons he's not complaining, but it's fairly certain he wouldn't have complained before, non? Of course, Bartholomew had a bit of concern with Miss Go, but at least she had valid reasons for what happened. And now, yet another game's afoot!

We hope you've enjoyed the remaster of A Touch of Warmth! Look out for the next chapter, coming out on the first Friday of March!

As always, readers, there are a _lot_ of fics out there, and a lot that deserve your attention... So keep on reading, enjoying, and if you feel like it, reviewing!

Thanks from Neo and kgs-wy!


	2. Chapter II

**Authors' Foreword**

Hey, all! It's been a while, and sorry it took so long for us to get back to the fic. Unfortunately, life, and it's complete and utter unexpectedness, delayed a bit. Well... A lot... That said, however... We're back, and hopefully fully on track, so have a read, and we hope that you enjoy what we've uploaded for you!

 **MP MP MP MP**

Miriam sighed as she made her way towards the _Arc de Triomphe_. She was quite certain, to her chagrin, that she looked every inch the expatriate to the locals. _If not a pure tourist!_

She dismissed the addition her mind insisted adding to her worries as sheer nerves. After all, her French seemed at the very least acceptable to the locals if their reactions to her wording and accent were any indication! That made the former the more likely.

Of course, her fashion sense, always keen, had allowed her a semblance of fitting in with her surroundings… At least, more than she might have during a warmer time of year. Her greatcoat — which she had pulled tightly about her lithe form to keep the cold winter wind from further chilling her — was rather stylish and in keeping with most of those she saw walking along the _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_.

 _I shall probably have to update my wardrobe before the next season..._ She grimaced slightly at the thought, then shrugged, _It cannot be avoided, unless I wish to make myself more of an outsider here in Paris than I am already!_

At least the directions she had obtained from the concierge, neatly written and in fluent English, were clear enough for her to follow! The problem came with the use of monuments for directions, more of a nuisance than normal considering that a few inches of snow had fallen over the evening. But some monuments, such as the _Arc de Triomphe_ , would be unmistakable even with feet of snow burying the city.

Granted, it was not much of a problem for Miriam, merely annoying. For Jonathon — as he had complained in his familiar, jocular manner — things were far more problematic, as he did not understand French very well at all. It had not seemed a bad idea at the time to split up; they could cover more ground, and could easily recognize the larger landmarks by sight. After the fact, however...

She sighed, hoping that she had made the correct decision searching separately from Jonathon. It had been sheer supposition that Bartholomew and Miss Go would have come to Paris to handle the blueprints, and while that conjecture had borne fruit, it left them a troubling quandary. The villains had multiple areas with which to divest themselves of the blueprints, which she and her partner had pared down to two possibilities. Splitting their efforts had indeed allowed them cover them both, but now that they had done so Miriam worried that, perhaps, the blond may get himself into more than a spot of trouble.

The industrial section _was_ a rough and tumble place, after all, and as strong and resilient as her friend was, he was _not_ a fighter of particularly high caliber. Wrestling? It was true that very few could beat him. Fisticuffs or the more intensive combat arts Miss Go had seemed trained for? It was far from certain, when it came to Jonathon, unless he could actually manage a solid grapple with an opponent...

That observation sharply compounded Miriam's concerns, especially considering the ghastly affairs which had gone on just getting to Europe. _Yes,_ she concluded to herself with a moueof worry, _I think it is a definite, well-founded fear. How in the world do we continue to find ourselves in these situations?_

Oh. Right. Hunting down Lipsky and forcing a confession from him. That man seemed to exude trouble like some type of poison, and he was greasy enough to get out with little trouble at all! _I'm surprised Miss Go had not discovered a way to use it for her own purposes!_ Shaking her head, Miriam looked to the directions again. The paper said to look for the collection of cafés which were clustered at a three-way intersection…

"Over here, Ms. Possible!"

Miriam crumpled the paper in an angry fist. There was only one person whose voice could be so charming, yet repulsively confident at once.

"Bartholomew Lipsky!" she hissed under her breath. Miriam clenched her other fist as she rounded gracefully in the direction he had called from. Sure enough, the man in question was standing just outside the entrance to a stylish looking café that seemed more of an actual restaurant than a quaint eatery.

It took her aback to see him looking so expectant, as if he had actually been _waiting_ on her. To her great frustration, despite the fact that she had chased him across an ocean and half of two continents, his attention was focused less on her, and more on the pocketwatch he held! Even as she stewed, that part of her that had reported on fashion noted the watch was almost ornate in its understated simplicity, and only added to the clear invitation his words and posture intimated. Had she not known better, she would have thought he had a previously scheduled lunch date at the café.

 _That lunch date being_ me _, if I must hazard a guess…_ she deduced with an ire deep enough that it managed to surprise her. Forcing her anger down into a tense calm, she took stilted steps toward him until she was standing just down the steps from his position.

"I had wondered when you would arrive. I had set aside a window of fifteen minutes for you." He put his watch away in the front breast pocket of his suit jacket, Miriam now noticing that he was sans his normal greatcoat, and gave her a grand smile. She barely resisted the urge to grimace at the painfully theatric expression as he beckoned to the door. "Come in, sit with me for some coffee and a light brunch."

It took her a few moments to process his request. Once she had, it was almost too ludicrous to even consider. "You can _not_ be serious!" she gaped, "Why should I bother to drink tea with you? For all I know, it may be poisoned, or filled with foul medicines! And that is _without_ mention the wrongs _you_ have committed against _me_."

Bartholomew's expression screamed surprise, which, Miriam felt confident, was a sham, as well as a small amount of hurt. "Miss Possible, you think so little of me? I, as a proper gentleman, would not stoop to such pitiful attempts to defeat so worthy a foe!"

"It may not be you who does the deed..." Miriam responded in a low voice, remembering the rather cruel turn of events Miss Go had thrown at poor Jon in New York City. Who knew how debilitating a light digestif mixed with a colon cleanser could be, save for that witch?

He hummed in recognition of her comment. "I can assure you that Miss Go is not here," he said earnestly, motioning to the café once again. "I merely wish to spend some time with my foe in a less... Contentious setting, you understand?." When she did not move, he sighed. "Please, Miriam, what must I do to prove that my intentions are not foul?"

Miriam huffed, barely resisting stamping a foot like an impatient horse as she took the time to think on his offer.

 _You are in a precarious situation, Miriam…_ she counseled herself. _You cannot do anything until he makes a move. As we found out in Italy, he has his family's rather powerful reputation supporting him throughout Europe. You are only an American reporter, one wanted in your own country, as well. At least Mr. Poirot was able to assure you that you were_ not _wanted anywhere in Europe for the theft…_

She narrowed her eyes as he stood patiently awaiting her decision, and pursed her lips as a realization struck her, _He could sit here all day if he wanted, just waiting for you to tire. He could possibly even call the police right now to report you following him, and with his family connections, it would be taken seriously as a threat to his person…_ She sighed as unobtrusively as she could before nodding minutely, _At least if you are here you have a chance to thwart his scheme, whatever it may be… And you can get out of the chill for a few moments!_

"I suppose," she began slowly, watching him carefully, "that my worries would be assuaged if you were to partake of the same foodstuffs I will."

Miriam was rewarded for her observation; not for any slip-up in villainy, as it were, but in his surprising expression of delight. Instead of the grandiose, rather death's head like affectations she had seen in Middleton and later in Naples, it was instead a small upturn of the lips. She barely kept her expression sober as his eyes twinkled in some hidden merriment and a light chuckle slipped gently from his lips, seemingly without his own notice. It lasted a few scant seconds before he once again assumed the façade of a malefactor, but it was enough for her to grasp at just what he hid behind that very mask.

The awareness surprised her so much that she had a sudden urge to research his past, wanting to understand how a man with such potential for warmth could turn to callous villainy.

"I see," he said with a knowing tone as he turned towards the café, missing the sudden change in Miriam's posture, looking less like a trapped rabbit and more like a cat whom had just caught sight of a particularly juicy mouse. She managed to school herself to neutrality once more before he glanced back to her with a large, toothy grin on his face. "Then that is what we shall do."

Miriam stood awkwardly for a few seconds as Bartholomew opened the door and stood aside with a bow. She noticed that, despite being nearly forty years old, he was a powerfully built man as muscles bulged and stretched some portions of his suit's jacket. "Our seat is straight back, the last on the left; my coat is draped over my chair. I am sure you will recognize it?"

She nodded and made her way toward the table, which already had a small selection of bread and cheese laid out for them. She got there before him, and pulled her seat out by herself, first checking it over. Satisfied that he had not stooped so low as to use poisoned tacks or some similarly untoward form of attack, she removed her coat and draped it over the back of her chair. It was an unconscious action, as she had been raised more around men than women in her life, and had picked up on some of their habits. She then sat with an air that mixed dignity and propriety that indicated she was a progressive woman who did not expect to be coddled.

It seemed to be the right thing to do, as she saw Bartholomew's lips curve slightly wider than before as he watched her seat herself. Keeping attention on his face out of the corner of her eyes, she saw his expression fall into one of concern as she pulled her seat close to the table and straightened. "Is something the matter with you now, Bartholomew?" she asked, as if without a care.

Realizing he had been caught, Bartholomew put on a genuinely charming smile, oddly mixing his villainous bombast and the sincere expression she had seen twice already. "My apologies, but I was wondering which beverage you were going to order."

"Tea," Miriam answered curtly as Bartholomew sat, almost causing him to fall from his seat. He cringed at her blunt response; an expression she felt was as overinflated as that of any stage performer. She took a tentative sniff of the air and allowed a bare smirk to grace her features, "Chamomile, specifically."

"Would you be amenable to coffee?" he asked tentatively, "I would rather not drink tea at the moment, and drinking coffee at the same time as drinking tea is not a pleasant thought."

It only took her a moment to decide her response, which she delivered in a rather more austere tone than she had taken up to that moment. "No I would not. You are the one who desires this meeting; the least you could do is allow me my drink of choice."

"As I thought you would answer," he sighed, surprisingly lacking in his normal theatrics, before waving a waiter wondered slightly at that, having expected a more curlish response. She quickly schooled her curiosity, lest she utter any of the questions lurking beneath her tongue.

They sat in silence for a minute as they waited for the order of tea to arrive. The air was thick enough to have made a pleasant soup as Miriam eyed Bartholomew suspiciously. Her suspicion redoubled when he became much too intently focused on a chip in the table. Thankfully, the waiter did nothing more than bring them their order and leave. Either he was an intuitive lad or his shift was nearing its end, she concluded.

Miriam waited but a moment for the tea to cool before pouring a cup for herself. Bartholomew mimicked the action, distaste clear on his face. It was Earl Grey, which drew the barest grimace from her, though she relaxed when she tasted the healthy addition of chamomile. She guessed she should have allowed her foe to pick at his leisure, but she had been drinking alcohol a bit more than she preferred, having lacked her favored tea, which seemed to stem her desire for alcohol. Nonetheless, the choice was unusual; to her knowledge he was not of any English descent, his family instead being Germanic.

Her urge to research his past solidified into determination in that moment. She did not actually _know_ anything about Bartholomew Lipsky save for what she had discovered from her contacts on this side of the Atlantic. She studied him briefly over the rim of her steaming tea, though she kept herself from being obtrusive about it, while thinking about their past interactions.

Mannerisms, quirks, plots, personality... They all painted a picture for her, but — as she had seen today — it was as an impressionist's fleeting imagery, as opposed to the realist's ponderous attention to the smallest detail. The picture she had of the man was lacking the history, the _minutia_ , that any reporter such as herself craved, leaving the man before her a complete mystery. _Perhaps I can gain a starting point during this conversation?_ She lowered her tea after taking a healthy sip of the hot liquid, waiting until he had finished his own sip as a show of good sport, and asked, "What is it you wanted from this meeting, Lipsky?"

"What do I want out of this meeting?" Bartholomew breathed out slowly, setting his tea on its saucer. He leaned back and considered the question, steepling his fingers as he gazed at her. After several seconds of silence save for a light sip from Miriam, he answered, "I want to know some things… About the wrongs which you say I have committed against you. Pray tell, what could I have done to earn your scorn, and such dogged pursuit?"

Miriam pursed her lips, carefully lowering the tea to the saucer and setting both back to the tabletop. She folded her hands in front of her and favored the man across from her with a stern gaze, before biting out a quiet, "Surely you heard that I am now a wanted woman due to your actions over that _ridiculous_ Electrostatic Illuminator?"

Bartholomew blinked in shock and Miriam was surprised that it seemed unfeigned. She cocked her head slightly as the man reached up to smooth his pencil-thin mustache in thought, before he took a deep breath and shook his head, "I had not, Miriam. Though I have no idea as to why you would have been considered the guilty party, what with the number of witnesses to the event who would have clearly seen Miss Go! I must say that you have my sincere apologies."

Miriam opened her mouth to reply hotly to his comment, but he raised a finger, "I must also say that I can do nothing for you, my dear. As I did not steal the dingus that I was after, claiming guilt would be most… Problematic. Especially considering my lineage…" He surprised Miriam once again by grimacing, "My family, most especially my mother, would be quite… Put out, were any claim of guilt to be made against my person. And she would put much pressure via diplomatic channels to bury any accusations, even with a written and signed confession from me."

"Really…" Miriam's voice was cold, but her gaze hot with anger. Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture that seemed designed both to ward her aggressive attitude off and apologize at once.

"Overall," Bartholomew drew out after Miriam's glare cooled slightly, "I have to assert that it would cause more problems for both of us, and quite probably result in a worse punishment than any youcould receive for the failed thef-…"

"If it failed, then where _is_ the Electrostatic Illuminator, hmmm?" Miriam asked sharply, and Bartholomew's eyebrows rose towards his hairline.

"It must be at the site of the fair!" he protested, his voice as sharp as Miriam's, "It dropped from my hand before Miss Go and myself were carried away by the wind."

"I…" Miriam took a deep breath and calmed herself. Reaching out carefully, she picked up her tea and raised it to her lips. "I see…" she murmured as she took long sip. Glancing down into her cup and seeing it was essentially empty, she poured another cup and then returned her gaze to Bartholomew. "Now allow _me_ a question, Bartholomew." Her attempts to prevent the heated argument from affecting her quickly began to fail her, thus she asked in one breath, "Why do you act as an imbecile as often as you do when you are clearly more intelligent than you let on?"

Bart flinched at 'imbecile', but confusion quickly took place of dismay. "I am not quite sure I understand."

"Oh yes, because I certainly believe that!" She let some anger seep into her voice along with a touch of sarcasm, though she kept her voice to a proper conversational level. "Stop playing me for a fool. It seems rather obvious you are _pretending_ to be a villain. It was never more obvious than it has been simply sitting here talking with you. What I want to know is why you would make a fabrication of such villainous actions?"

"My intentions are anything but a fabrication, Miriam!" He sniffed disdainfully at the entire concept, and smirked slightly at Miriam's disbelieving snort. _So much like an angered lioness…_ he thought, forcibly keeping his smirk in place lest a true smile at his thoughts shine through, "I am merely going by the codes set down in the Book of Villainy. You can neither join, nor be a member in standing, of The Guild of Calamity and Villainy, without following the code. They have very strict guidelines, and are required to offer assistance to the authorities when a member has gone rogue, when a freelancer begins to besmirch the name for the guild, or when a madman's desires delve into the realms of wanton slaughter or destruction for destruction's sake."

"Villainy implies malicious intent. You would think that those involved in the career of villainy would be incapable of even gathering with no bloodshed," she observed. "I certainly do not see you as a villain, no matter how well you look the part. It is not the costume that makes a person truly good or evil in character; it is the person themselves who determines what path they take."

"Perhaps…" Bart conceded with another of his brief grins, "And perhaps I should add that the guild is a group of reasonable, _gentlemanly_ villains, as opposed to thugs and common thieves? Any gentleman would try to avoid unnecessary troublemaking!" He sobered slightly and speared Miriam with an intense stare, "Now Miriam, you _were_ correct in saying I had an ulterior motive in this. My motive was to learn of you as a person. What makes you, _you_? I have found you, I admit startlingly, to be one of the most fascinating women I have ever encountered. I find myself wishing to know more…"

He let Miriam digest that for a moment, drinking the last dregs of the tea in his cup, before pouring another. "And that, my dear, is why I wished to talk with you today. No scheme. No plot. No thefts." Smirking, he added, "I am sure your friend, the buffoon, has gotten himself in trouble by now trying to preempt what you two thought would be my plan. You may wish to cut your teatime short to save him from his own foolishness."

"I am quite certain he could handle anything you could send his way," Miriam scoffed, her nose upturning slightly, "He is a gentleman himself, after all, and as you said yourself, a reasonable gentleman tries to avoid unnecessary troublemaking." She smirked slightly as Bartholomew nodded, "Though with that established, I wonder why you find yourself in so much trouble… As such a reasonable gentleman, of course."

"Astute in reason and blessed with a rapier wit," Bart nodded at her, holding his hand before him as if holding a foil to acknowledge a point, "Touché, my dear. And to answer your question, I _am_ a reasonable gentleman, of both upbringing and of bearing. I am also, however, a man of science, and a man with _powerful_ anti-imperialist beliefs!" Miriam's eyes widened slightly at such a bold statement.

The red-head took a sip of her tea to keep herself from exclaiming in shock, and Bart continued into the growing silence, "As such, it is not only my duty, but my _honor_ to pursue any avenue I might to stop such actions. That is why I joined the Guild. I gain some minor protections from the law in many countries, so long as I keep my actions within certain, reasonable levels.

"As well," he continued in a manner that easily identified him as a scientist, "I, being a Guild member, am forced to keep in mind my own actions at all times; while I may commit some small violence in pursuit of my goals, those acts will be less than the daughter of Prince Dakkar, a rather well known villain herself before following in her father's more… Subversive footsteps." Bart paused for a moment, pursing his lips slightly before shrugging, "And even if I embraced _that_ worthy gentlewoman's methods, they would be far, _far_ short of the kinds of excesses that the imperialist autocrats of the world use now!"

"What do you mean?" Miriam asked, shaken by the intensity of his gaze, as well as the implications of his words... And the knowledge that she was similarly anti-imperialist, if not so apt to take _direct_ action as Bartholomew claimed. His gaze hardened slightly as she remained silent, as if insulted by her question, so she added, "What specifically, Bartholomew, beyond expansion via conquest?"

"I have seen what the imperialist autocracies have done in Africa, my dear." Bartholomew's voice had an edge of heat to it as he continued, deepening from the normal, harsh tenor to a cultured, yet bleak baritone, "I led men in German South-West Africa. It was not so onerous at first, but as I took missions, I saw what was happening in the countryside, away from the so-called civilized enclaves of colonists... I saw the aftermath of massacres. The wreckage made of men, women, even _children_ , butchered in their homes, or worse, as they fled in terror!

"I watched strong men break following their orders," his voice was, however briefly, distant, as he looked into his own past, "and others become monsters who enjoyed such wanton slaughter. I strove to keep men under my own command honorable in the face of atrocity, and turned in my own commission in disgust when my own high command tried to undermine the very mission they had given me for a victory that would have resulted in a war of _eradication_!"

Miriam was taken aback, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Bartholomew plowed on, an ironic twist to his lips that resembled anything but a smile. "As an example closer to home for you," his voice was now calm, his baritone chilling despite the warmth the redhead felt it could so easily contain, "I suggest you look to your own American military's actions during the Philippine Insurrection, all on the orders of their government controllers… The atrocities, the hundreds, sometimes _thousands_ , of civilians killed each day because of some vague suspicion that they supported General Aguinaldo or tha-…"

"I see your point," Miriam groused in distaste, cutting the man off with a curt wave of her hand. She knew of the actions taken there all too well. She had been asked by the Middleton Daily, since she had been in the area of the world, to cover the situation for the paper. And, unfortunately for her, she had, and quite truthfully. Her editor, on the orders of several stockholders, had pulled her after the fifth report and had, temporarily at least, relegated her to reporting on happenings in and around Middleton, or on fashion.

The distasteful actions the military had taken in quelling the insurrection, actions she had witnessed, still made her stomach churn. Especially when she considered that her late husband may have been ordered to take part of the military actions had he not already been in China. She noted, "I was stationed in Manila from July to December back in 1900 by the Middleton Daily, right after I was forced to leave China…"

"You were in China during the Siege on the Legations?" Bartholomew asked in a logical jump that startled Miriam into a brief silence.

"Yes," she said simply, not wanting to reveal to her nemesis the pain she had suffered upon receiving word that her husband had been killed in action. Shrugging, she set her tea down to partake of the cheese and bread. She nibbled on a hard bread she'd smeared with an herby, sharp smelling cheese, before glancing away from her tablemate, "I see your point, Bartholomew… But surely it would be better to pursue more peaceful, political mean-…"

"My apologies for interrupting you," Bartholomew said softly, but firmly. "I have already tried that. Both my position as a man among that aristocracy and my standing as a man of science should have given me headway, but alas, my pleas and declarations fell upon deaf ears in government, and all too open ears in academia. And as you can guess, the academics tend to be ignored until the problem has reared its head in a manner unavoidable to the governments of the world."

Miriam felt slightly put out by his interruption, and was about to ask a further question when Bartholomew held up his hand and favored her with an honestly apologetic glance, before looking towards the entrance of the café, "Good afternoon, Eduardo! You have a message for me, I presume?"

"Indeed, Mr. Lipsky!" the young man, perhaps seventeen years of age, said in English with a light, rather fetching Spanish accent, "From a Miss Go?"

"Thank you, and hold here for a moment, if you please?" Eduardo smiled gratefully and nodded, taking what was apparently a much needed breather. The youth sighed as he unbuttoned his greatcoat in the heat of the café, revealing a well tailored, tan and grey suit underneath.

Miriam looked the young man over, wondering if he was somehow part of Lipsky's scheming. It was quite possible, considering the young man's age and his stylish fashion of dress, despite being what seemed to be a courier. He was rather attractive, tall and lanky, with sharp, steel grey eyes, a hooked, but attractively proportioned nose and thin lips. His hair was short and of a no-nonsense cut, adding an air of sophistication to the young man's visage.

Eduardo seemed to have caught her sizing him up and gave a jaunty bow, holding his hand out, "My name, _mademoiselle_ , is Eduardo Manuel Mauricio Senior, of Senior and Partners Courier Service."

"Miriam," Miriam answered shortly, a mildly charmed smile taking any sting from her brevity as she held her hand out to shake his.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, indeed," Eduardo murmured as he drew her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

"Thank you…" She paused a moment and cocked her head slightly, "Considering how much a mouthful your name is, I hope you do not mind me calling you Eduardo?"

"Not at all, _mademoiselle_!" Eduardo enthused, "As for my name, yes, it is a mouthful, but I'd have it no other way. My first name I share with my father, and my middle names are from my grandfathers!"

Miriam smiled at the bright grin that was on the young man's face. She drew her hand back, grabbing up her cup of tea and managing a sip before her curiosity got the better of her, "If you do not mind me saying, you are quite fluent in English, Eduardo, though you seem to be a Spaniard? And being the apparent senior partner in a courier business in Paris at such a young age?"

"Ah, therein lies my secret!" he boasted grandiosely, "I may be young, but have traveled extensively, and picked up some small of fluency in several languages, as well as rather more fluency in English, Spanish – which is my home language, as you so noticed – as well as French, German and Russian. As for the business, my sisters, my younger brother, and two friends of mine, are all equal partners in our enterprise, all of them have similarly broad language skills to myself, with a variety of different languages, having French, English and Spanish as mutual languages."

"Interesting…" Miriam pondered for a moment, concluding that he seemed to be on the up and up. Considering his apparent language skills, if he and his partners were able to hold their tongues they would be useful for carrying diplomatic communiqués when discretion required someone not easily identified as connected to a given consulate. Not to mention international business transactions.

"Quite," Bartholomew agreed as he finished scribbling a note, the paper folded such that Miriam could not see what was being written, "And he is _very_ efficient. Perhaps you would like to use Eduardo's services to send a message to your partner?"

"I might," Miriam agreed with surprising ease, "Depending, of course, on the price?"

"It is based on distance, and we take the shortest route practical." Eduardo answered with a rather more professional smile, "We also guarantee the privacy of anything sent via our service. As to price, it is four _centimes_ per kilometer for letters and small packages or packages under half a kilo. For packages from over one half to six kilos, it is eight _centimes_ per kilometer, and for packages six to ten kilos, it is twelve _centimes_ per kilometer. Larger packages are determined by a combination of size, weight and the form of transportation required… And we guarantee reception of the package."

"That…" Miriam did a few figures in her head, blinking a few times, "Sounds very reasonable."

"Indeed!" Bartholomew said with firm agreement, "And he has yet to fail any courier task I have given him."

"Then, yes, I do wish to make use of your service, Eduardo." She glanced at Bart, who was holding a pencil and a piece of paper out to her, "Thank you, Bartholomew." She quickly scribbled a note to Jon to meet her at the café, and handed the paper to Eduardo, "I may have to pay a little extra, but he was supposed to be at…" She reached into her coat's inner pocket and pulled out the paper with the address one of her contacts had given her, then grabbed a small pocket watch and opened it to reveal the small photo of herself, Albert, and Jonathon she kept in it. She handed the paper to the young man, and then held the open face of the pocket watch towards him, pointing at Jonathon with her free hand, "My friend, Jonathon, should be at or in the area of that address. My friend is the one on the right, mid-sneeze."

"I shall make sure he gets your message." Eduardo handed the note with the address back to her, "That will be about fourteen _centimes_. I will return to you with your message and eighty percent of your costs if I am unable to find him, with the remaining twenty percent as payment for time used."

"That is reasonable," Miriam murmured, removing her coin purse from her bodice, counting out the sixteen _centimes_ and handing it to him. "Thank you very much. What would be the best way to contact you if I have need of your services in the future?"

"I have cards made up for just such an occasion!" Eduardo said happily, reaching into his coat and pulling one out, "You may sometimes find me here, but will always find my youngest sister at our offices. I do hope to do business with you again, my lady!" He bowed at Miriam, then turned and bowed at Bartholomew, " _Adieu_ , and thank you both for your business!"

"A surprisingly pleasant fellow." Miriam noted as she watched the man leave.

"Yes, and thank you for trusting him despite the fact that I use his services." Miriam glanced at Bartholomew, quirking an eyebrow at his considering gaze. The man chuckled lightly, "My dear, it is reasonable to presume you were suspicious of him because I employ his services, even though he is a respectable entrepreneur. And I thank you for trusting him, as he is, as they say, above board."

"I trust my instincts," Miriam said, ignoring a niggling in the back of her brain that said she sometimes ignored them, "And besides, I plan on staying here to finish my tea and meal."

"And I must take my leave shortly," Bartholomew mused, again smoothing his moustache, "I am compelled to thank you again, by the by…"

"For?" Miriam asked casually, leaning back in her chair to nibble on another piece of bread and a slice of harder cheese.

"I am thanking you for trusting my honor as a gentleman not to act in an untoward manner." Bart declared, then started as if just remembering something, "Especially considering the day it is? I know it is only Christmas Eve, but I felt that my favorite foe deserves a present equal to the esteem in which I hold her."

"I keep forgetting we are ahead of the Americas, timewise," Miriam sighed, before quirking an eyebrow when the rest of his statement struck her, "And what present could you possibly offer that I could accept, Bartholomew?"

"Why, only this…" Bartholomew allowed an honest smile to grace his features, and reached down underneath the table, grabbing a familiar satchel from the floor and setting it in the chair to his left. "As well as my promise that I did nothing to the originals that were in Britain. That would be Mr. Giordano's doing."

"I see…" Miriam barely contained herself from laughing. _So you never realized that 'Mr. Giuseppe Giordano' was actually a Frenchman named Jean-Paul Sauvage?_ Instead of laughing, she reached over to carefully grab the satchel and look inside. Her mouth dropped open slightly as she realized that all of the plans seemed to be within the satchel, and she glanced sharply across the table at him. "Why would you give me this?" she asked suspiciously, then narrowed her eyes and snarled lightly, "Unless you've already gotten your use of it?"

"Guilty, as charged…" Bartholomew admitted with seemingly honest contrition, "And, as you will note, I have put a few additional papers in there that I am sure the inventor of such a brilliant form of steel might find useful."

"Why?" Miriam boggled at him, and was surprised as he leaned back and spoke contemplatively.

"Because, Miriam…" he did not seem to realize he had dropped the 'my dear' he had been using throughout the conversation, "I am a man of science. If I can help a fellow scientist in any way, I will do so… Even at the risk of improving the weaponry of war, as this material has so many _practical_ uses it boggles even a scientist's mind!" He shook himself, then glanced back at her, "And… Considering your dogged pursuit, I felt it only honorable to assist you in recovering something of such importance."

"You are a strange man, Mr. Lipsky," Miriam intoned, but silently admitted that, if her close friendship with Jonathon was any yardstick, she was rather fond of people with strange outlooks. If he was not on the wrong side of things, she could easily see him being a good friend, but alas… She shook herself and smiled, the first truly honest expression of such she had graced him with, and held out her hand, "Thank you, then, Bartholomew. And I think a Christmas truce between you and Miss Go in respect to myself and Jon is… A very agreeable situation?"

"Yes, and…" Bart took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something, "Upon my honor, I shall do no villainy between now and the second day of the new year, from this year and into perpetuity."

Miriam's eyes widened, and she found herself smiling in agreement, "Very well! Perhaps…" She paused, realizing what she was about to say, and felt a tremor of shock run through her system.

"Perhaps?" Bart asked leadingly, and Miriam shook herself, taking a long sip of her tea before answering.

"Perhaps, if our seconds are busy with other duties, and we are in Paris together, we should share tea again." Miriam felt her cheeks color slightly, but forced it aside and pushed on stubbornly, "You are a fascinating man, and I would like to know more of you. And, as a gentleman, if you agree to this, we shall not bear ill will between us during the entirety of such… Meetings. Agreeable?"

Bart considered this. He had hoped to learn something of Miriam, and had, instead, told her more of himself than he had gleaned of her. However, he had also enjoyed the back and forth, and the less hostile exposure to her sharp wit and tongue. He could find himself enjoying such meetings, and, perhaps over time, he could bring her around to his point of view. A very enticing proposition indeed, but it would be untoward to be blatant about it.

"My dear Miriam, I find this agreeable to the utmost degree. To sit across the table from a witty and intelligent wo-… Rather, _gentlewoman_ , and share philosophy and general discussion over tea and breakfast? I would be a fool to do otherwise!"

"Charming," Miriam declared in a droll tone at his somewhat grandiose declaration. But, she admitted, he at least seemed sincere. "When are you expecting to leave to meet up with Miss Go?"

He took his pocket watch out and glanced at it. "In about fifteen minutes I must take my leave. I had allowed time for any possible escape as I was unsure of how you would react to my proposition."

"Very well," Miriam nodded, smirking at his odd preparations. _He is_ such _an odd fellow!_ she thought, _And yet... There is so much that I should like to learn about the mystery that is Bartholomew Lipsky..._ Giving him a small smile, holding her up tea in salute, "I think, then, that I shall enjoy the time before we go our separate ways…"

"As shall I," Bart agreed, holding his teacup up to gently clink it with her teacup, "As shall I…"

 **Authors' Notes**

As mentioned, we're back. A couple-few days late, but hopefully, y'all have enjoyed the chapter, short and sweet though it may have been!

Anyway, it seems that we've witnessed a rather... Intriguing meeting for breakfast, non? Why would Mim think she could get information out of a crafty malcontent like Bartholomew Lipsky so easily? Well, it seems she got plenty enough to whet her appetite for more... Oh, those reporter's instincts, it seems they'll get Mim in trouble! Or will they...? Only time will tell...

As always, readers, there are a _lot_ of fics out there, and a lot that deserve your attention... So keep on reading, enjoying, and if you feel like it, reviewing!

Thanks from Neo and kgs-wy!


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